


The Promised Land Is Here

by slutpunk



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Asphyxiation, Car Sex, Deepthroating, Domestic Violence, Dubious Consent, Handcuffs, Knifeplay, M/M, Marking, Murder, Non-Consensual, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rope Bondage, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-07
Updated: 2013-11-07
Packaged: 2017-12-31 18:31:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1035001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slutpunk/pseuds/slutpunk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some times, Castiel wonders how he got here. How he went from being one of the top experts in his field to sleeping in the back seat of a big black car on cold winter nights. How did he end up here, with this man, this green-eyed killer that he loves so much? Some times he wonders, but he never regrets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Promised Land Is Here

**Author's Note:**

> Finally posted. Thanks.

**I.**

  
There’s a pool of blood slowly ebbing its way closer and closer to their bed, but Dean is too deep asleep to notice. Not that he would care if he were awake; he never has worried about getting dirty. Castiel’s arm is dangling over the edge, his fingertips just barely grazing the carpet, wondering if that thick line of blood will soon touch his skin if he doesn’t move.  
  
He’s been laying here for hours, awake, watching the body as if it would get up at any moment and attack them if he let himself fall asleep. Some times, in his nightmares (when he manages to sleep) that’s what happens. The body moves slowly, in jerks and twitches that are small at first and it seems that hours go by before it’s finally able to raise itself from the ground, before it approaches where Castiel sleeps with his body curled around Dean’s, before the body’s hands wrap around his throat and squeeze, smiling, laughing, “Your turn!”  
  
“Your turn, Cas. Wake up.”  
  
Dean’s hands haul him out of his dream and for a long while, Castiel can only stare and blink. Dean is sitting on the edge of the bed, a pair of jeans that aren’t his (they are now, but they weren’t before) slung low around his hips. He’s turned toward Castiel, one hand clutching a sock while the other jostles Castiel’s shoulder. “Come on, doc. I did it last time.” If he knows that Castiel was having another nightmare, he doesn’t say anything and his eyes leave no room for argument.  
  
Castiel doesn’t try to smile, he just nods.  
  
This one is easier than other he’s had to do. He arranges them on the couch, arm and arm before their fireplace. Getting the bodies down the stairs was hard, especially when one of them wouldn’t move from the chair they were tied in, even after Cas removed the ropes. That’s when he remembered that Dean had used a drill to screw them into the chair. He finds the power drill underneath the bed and when he takes a break to eat the pancakes Dean had made, there’s blood staining the elbow and knee of the clothes he borrowed.  
  
It’s not easy to set a home on fire without raising suspicion, but Dean has taught him well and Castiel is a fast learner.  
  
They’re nearly at the city limits before they hear the sirens. By the time they hit the freeway, Castiel is stretched out on the front seat, his head lying against Dean’s thigh while the man’s hands stroke through his hair gently, low voice crooning out with the song on the radio, “Hey, mama, look at me, I’m on the way to the promised land.”  
  
And Castiel is happy.  
  


**II.**

  
His life used to be much different. Castiel had routine, had structure, normal life. His job was lucrative enough that he could afford a small condo. Every week his mother would call and ask when he was going to find himself a girlfriend and settle down, give her some grandchildren. He always told her that he was too busy for relationships, that work kept him occupied. And it was partly true. But he had resigned himself to a lonely life and had begun to think that would be okay as long as he still had his work to keep him happy.  
  
Castiel loved his work. It was never easy and he had known that when he had decided to follow this path. Many of his teachers tried to warn him away, tried to tell him that it wouldn’t do any good that, “People like them are beyond helping.” But Castiel always enjoyed a challenge and he never really could believe that someone didn’t want to be helped.  
  
When Dean Winchester’s folder hit his desk, Castiel read every bit of it. He learned about the first person Dean was convicted of murdering – Meg Masters – and the murder that landed him in the asylum – Bobby Singer – and all the ones in between. He learned about the some times Satanic touches to the murders, the use of rosaries in water to drown his victims, the salt shoveled into their mouths and then sewn in with a needle and thread. Of course, much of the basic details he already knew from seeing the murders play out on the news, but now he had all the details right before him. One of the most prolific serial killers of his generation and Castiel would be the one to rehabilitate him. Staring down at the gory pictures of burnt corpses and tortured bodies, Castiel hadn’t been able to help the thrill that went through his gut.  
  
Their first meeting didn’t go well. Dean – who had seemed almost catatonic since he had first arrived at the asylum – had thrown himself at Castiel the moment the door closed. His fingers had latched around Castiel’s throat and  _squeezed_  until Castiel thought it would pop. His blood was pounding in his ears and his mouth gaped open, but Dean just pressed harder until it seemed that every bit of Castiel was screaming for air. Only then did Dean bend close, his lips brushing against the rise of Castiel’s cheekbones as he spoke.  
  
“Are you scared, doc?”  
  
And then Dean was gone, whisked away by security, his feet kicking as they dragged him down the hall and back to his cell, laughter bouncing off the walls.  
  
When Castiel went home that night he realized that he was still shaking and when he crawled into bed with his work clothes still on, he knew he had been scared. And Dean had known it too.  
  
Their second meeting was better, but not by much. Castiel’s throat was ringed in deep, purple bruises and his voice croaked as he spoke, but he forged on. He explained very clearly the way their sessions would go, that security would always be just beyond the door waiting, and that they would take action if Dean tried anything like last time again. Dean showed no evidence of even hearing Castiel’s words, his eyes locked on Castiel’s throat, a small smirk curving his lips.  
  
Already having an idea of how this was going to go, Castiel forged onward. It didn’t matter what Castiel said, Dean’s eyes never looked away from the ring of bruises around his neck and Castiel left the meeting feeling strangely shameful. He went home that night and stared at the bruises in the mirror, fit his hands to the prints and saw that his hands were smaller, longer, than Dean’s.  
  
The next time he saw Dean, Castiel’s throat was wrapped in gauze and this time Dean just smiled at him. His eyes were very green.  
  
It took another five visits before Castiel was able to get a reaction out of Dean. They had fallen into a routine, Castiel would ask questions, would ask him about his childhood, about the people he killed, about the first, but Dean would simply sit and watch his lips move, or watch his hands, just watch and watch and watch.  
  
He doesn’t remember now what he said, perhaps it was something about Dean’s father, or maybe his brother. All Castiel can remember is that one moment Dean was staring at him and the next the man’s fist was hurtling through the air, right for his face. It stopped before it hit and Castiel realized then that instead of turning away from the blow as someone else would have done, he had raised his face into it, had practically bared his throat to Dean.  
  
The man didn’t smile then, just looked confused and there was no laughing when security came in.  
  
Castiel’s superiors offered to take him off the case, but he refused.  
  


**III.**

  
They don’t check into hotels anymore, it’s too easy to get caught that way. If they can, they stick to cabins that have been abandoned for the season or camping grounds. But most times they end up sleeping in the Impala.  
  
Dean’s chest is pressed to his back and Castiel is finally starting to drift to sleep when a hard jerk wakes him up. It’s Dean, twitching and trembling and when Castiel cranes to look him, he sees Dean’s face is tight, brows furrowed together and jaw clenched hard.  
  
“Dean.” Castiel nudges the man with his elbow and when that doesn’t work, when Dean just keeps on jolting and shaking he sits up slightly, twisting around to shake Dean’s shoulder. “Dean, wake up.”  
  
It works then and Dean’s eyes snap open. Before Castiel can get a word out, Dean’s fist comes hurtling through the air at him and sends him flying back against the window behind him. His head is throbbing, spinning and he feels a fist clenching in the cloth of his shirt and then Dean hits him again and again.  
  
He must have said something, called out perhaps because, just as suddenly it stops.  
  
Dean’s hands are on his face and he can hear him sobbing out, “Oh God. Cas? Cas, you okay? Come on, doc answer me. Talk to me.”  
  
“’M okay.” Cas manages, but his mouth feels like it’s full of cotton. He can taste blood on his tongue and it must be from the split lip because it stings when he tries to lick his lip. “I’m okay, Dean.”  
  
They’re both crying, he realizes when Dean buries his face in Cas’s neck, big arms wrapped around him and holding him tight. Dean’s shoulders are heaving and it takes a moment before Castiel can decipher the words he’s mumbling.  
  
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, just so fucking sorry.” Over and over Dean weeps it into his shoulder and Castiel feels like he’s breaking open.  
  
“It’s okay, Dean. It’s okay. I’m okay.” This isn’t the first time that Dean has hit him, but it’s the first time that it wasn’t planned, calculated. This is the first time that Dean has apologized for it. The first time that Castiel has seen Dean cry.  
  
When Dean’s lips kiss along his jaw and up to his mouth, Castiel whimpers when he presses too hard, but instead of pressing harder, Dean eases up. His tongue licks the blood away from Castiel’s lip, hands pushing his shirt up and off.  
  
Dean’s hands explore his face, perhaps tracing the bruises his fist left behind as he steadily rocks into Castiel. Castiel’s hands are braced on Dean’s shoulders, his hips surging down to meet the man, thrust for thrust. He loves this feeling, sitting in Dean’s lap, split open on Dean’s cock, the drag of Dean’s cock inside him setting his nerves on fire.  
  
Every so often, Dean murmurs against Castiel’s skin, “Sorry. ‘M sorry,” and Castiel isn’t sure if Dean’s apologizing to him anymore.

  
**IV.**   


  
They were in Castiel’s office and Dean’s hand was down the front of his pants.  
  
It was wrong, it broke every code that Castiel had ever sworn himself to, but it was too good. Dean was pressed against his back, grinding his cock – all thick and hard – against the swell of Castiel’s ass. They were trying to keep quiet, at least Castiel was, but Dean’s hand was relentless, twisting and squeezing his cock mercilessly.  
  
Dean’s behavior had been good for a long time. After the last incident, Dean seemed to really open up to Castiel. He told Castiel about his mother, about watching a stranger string her from the ceiling and set her on fire. He talked about his father, about the fists that rained down on him in anger. And about his brother, the one he often dove in front of those fists for.  
  
And he spoke of Alastair, the man who taught him how to hurt, how to manipulate, how to make even the strongest of men plead for their lives. The one who killed his brother. His first real kill.  
  
Castiel understood or, at least, he tried to. He believed that Dean wasn’t really as dangerous as everyone seemed to think; he was only doing as he had been taught, what an entire lifetime of trauma taught him was okay. Castiel’s heart ached for this man, this man who was broken and left behind again and again. Some times, it was all Castiel could do to stop himself from reaching out and holding on to Dean’s hand, giving the only comfort he could.  
  
But then the day came when Dean reached for his hand, holding it so gently, so carefully that Castiel could never believe that this man could ever hurt another human being. Those eyes, so sincere, so sweet, stared right into Castiel like he was the only salvation he had, like Castiel was the only one who could save him.  
  
Castiel had been trying so hard to hide his wants, his need. To hide the way even a glance from Dean had him squirming in his seat, a warm thrill skirting up and down his spine. Every smile, every drag of Dean’s eyes over his skin was like a physical touch that sent heat rushing through him. Castiel tried to hide it, the way that Dean affected him, emotionally and physically, but Dean would always look at him like he knew, like there was no way Castiel could deny it around him.  
  
So he stopped trying.  
  
A camera was on in the room, somewhere, filming their session. Except Castiel knew he would have to hide this video like he’s done with so many others, hide away all the evidence because his superiors just wouldn’t understand, they didn’t  _know_  Dean like he did.  
  
Dean’s hand squeezed and Castiel whimpered, hips bucking forward. His shirt was unbuttoned enough for Dean to latch his mouth to the length of his neck, for him to suck bruises into Castiel’s skin. His fingers were sliding into Castiel’s hole now, slicked up with the lube he’d started keeping in the top drawer of his desk. Castiel’s hands gripped the edge of the desk with a white knuckled grip and he swayed where he stood as Dean pressed a third finger inside, stretching him out quickly. They only had another hour before security would come escort him back to his room.  
  
“Dean,” Castiel sighed as Dean shoved Castiel’s slacks out of the way, pushed his work coat up and off to the side, and started to press the head of his cock inside.  
  
“Fuck, doc. So warm and tight and  _good_.” Dean groaned as his hands gripped at Castiel’s hips, as he started to set a devilishly slow pace. “Gonna make you feel so good, Cas.”  
  
Only Dean ever called him that, and Castiel liked it that way. In elementary school, the teachers would stumble over his name during roll call and the other children would tease him for having a funny name. When he got to middle school he would always tell the teacher, “Just call me Jimmy, it’s my middle name.” He never liked it when anyone called him by his first name, but there was something about the way Dean said it, the way it rolled off his tongue made Castiel feel like he was someone to be treasured and adored.  
  
Some times, it seemed like Dean was holding back. His hands would dance over Castiel’s skin, squeezing at his nipples, fingertips pressing into his skin, but not too hard, not hard enough to leave behind bruises. He was careful with Castiel in a way that no one else ever was and Castiel appreciated it, loved it really, but he couldn’t help feeling that Dean was so restrained in these moments.  
  
Dean’s hips were thrusting into him hard enough for him to jostle the desk he was leaning on and Castiel could feel Dean going in so  _deep_  and he loved it, loved the drag of Dean’s cock against the sensitive skin of his hole, loved to feel Dean’s breath panting out against his ear, loved the way Dean’s hands never stopped touching him. But still he wondered if there was more, if Dean really was holding himself back.  
  
But it didn’t matter really because Dean was always perfect to him, especially when he could feel Dean shuddering against him, when he could feel Dean’s arms around him squeezing hard as he painted the inside of Castiel’s body with streaks of come, when he wrapped his big hand around Castiel’s cock and made him come too, all over the floor of his office, all over Dean’s hand.  
  
Even now, Dean is still perfect.  
  


**V.**

  
It’s been one month and two weeks since their last kill and Dean isn’t doing well.  
  
He’s sitting on the couch with the remnants of his fifth beer dangling from his fingertips. Castiel can’t tell if Dean is really even aware of what he’s watching since he seems to be watching some program about a doctor everyone calls ‘sexy,’ but honestly he doesn’t care.  
  
They’ve been cooped up in the same cabin, hiding out from the police this entire time. They’d barely made it out of the last town they were in, barely managed to lose the tail and make it back to the Impala without ending up behind bars. And now, they’re just waiting for the hype to die down.  
  
Castiel is in the kitchen doing the dishes just because there’s nothing else for him to do. He’s been power cleaning the entire cabin for the past few days and he doesn’t want to admit it, but it’s getting to him too. Not just having to stay inside, not just being confined to this kitchen-slash-dining room-slash-living room with a barely walled in bedroom and a shower that only gets hot water on a good day. It’s not just that.  
  
It’s that he’s been missing something else too. He’s missing the blood and the screaming and the feeling of a life fading out right before your eyes. It sickens him, to think that he’s becoming like that, that he’s falling further and further into this hole Dean dug for him. Yet he knows it would be so easy to stop it. So easy to turn himself in, to turn Dean in, to end up locked in an asylum just like Dean was where he wouldn’t be able to hurt anyone ever again. It would be so  _easy_.  
  
He tries not to think about it. Not thinking about it lets him pretend none of it exists. It’s better that way.  
  
It’s been three weeks since Dean last fucked him. Since Dean even looked at him. And Castiel  _knows_  what this is, he knows that Dean’s trying not to snap, that he’s even worse. Castiel can see it every time he tries to talk to Dean, but the man’s eyes only wander the space around him, never looking right at him even if he does talk back. Castiel tries to tell himself that it’s just the nerves, that it’s better this way, but that doesn’t stop the way he  _wants_.  
  
A crash brings him out of his revere and when Castiel looks down the glass he had been washing is in pieces. He doesn’t curse, but he wants to, wants to take the broken pieces and hurl them at the wall. It was the last glass they had. The ones that had been left here by the cabin’s owners only numbered three. One had some kind of liquid caked into the bottom that no matter how many times Castiel soaked it and washed it, he could just not remove. The second Dean had thrown at the TV when his favorite team lost the game. Thankfully, the TV hadn’t broken from the impact, but the glass was certainly unsalvageable.  
  
And the third now lay shattered in the sink.  
  
“What was that?”  
  
Castiel hadn’t even heard Dean approach. The man was standing there, the beer bottle still held loose between his fingers, nearly empty now. Somehow, Dean never got that glazed look in his eyes that most drunks got. Instead, his eyes just seemed to darken, focused suddenly on him like there was no one else in the room. It was scarier than the way Castiel’s father used to get—  
  
“What?”  
  
“Don’t ‘what?’ me. What the hell was that?” Dean’s grip around the bottle goes white-knuckled.  
  
“The glass. It broke. I dropped it, and it broke.” He can feel something hot rising inside him, not desire, not anything like that. Just anger. “It was an accident, Dean.”  
  
He knows his tone is condescending, that really he’s sneering out,  _‘What the fuck do you think that sound was?’_  But he can’t help it. He really should have because then Dean’s arm is raising and the bottle in his hand is hurling through the air at him.  
  
It doesn’t hit him, but it wasn’t meant to. The bottle crashes against the cupboards to the right of Castiel and he immediately ducks away, throwing arms over his head to block his head. Beer splashes along his arms, but he doesn’t have much time to consider it before Dean’s yelling.  
  
“Fucking talk to me like that? You gonna fucking get smart with me?” Dean’s hands circle around his wrists and yank them down and Dean’s so strong, he’s always been the stronger one. Castiel barely has time to clench his teeth before the back of Dean’s hand hits his cheek hard enough to send him reeling.  
  
He doesn’t feel it when he hits the floor, but he’s glad for the moment that at least Dean didn’t hit him in the other direction, didn’t send him flying into all that broken glass. Castiel tries to sit up, tries to push himself up off the floor, but Dean’s hand digs into his hair and shoves him face first into the floor. The wood is rough and scrapes against his chin, his cheek, his forehead and he cries out. Dean ignores him as he pushes a knee into the back of his neck with just enough pressure to keep him down.  
  
Dean’s hands are squeezing hard and when did he get the rope? Where did he get it? Castiel tries to squirm, tries to kick his feet out, tries to twist away, but it only makes the knee at the back of his neck press harder, press him down under he can hardly breathe. He can feel the twine knotting around his wrists, pulling too hard for this to mean fun, too hard for him to think that this is just a game.  
  
Dean finally lets up on his neck and Castiel thrashes upwards, teeth gnashed together, grunting as he tries to get away, tries to fight against what Dean has done to him. But it’s not over yet, he realizes that when Dean’s hand hits him hard, open-palmed, against his ear and then more rope is coiling around his neck, pulling dangerously tight.  
  
Castiel tries to struggle at first only to realize that Dean has tied his hands to his neck and every time he tries to tug his way free, he only ends up choking himself.  
  
Dean rolls him over onto his side then and when Castiel’s eyes finally find him, the man is standing so tall over him, legs braced on either side of his body, watching with a cruel turn of his mouth as Castiel tries to arch, tries to relieve some of the pull against his throat. Dean just grins and grins.  
  
Patience has never been one of Dean’s virtues, but he’s had weeks of nothing. So this time, he’s slow. He cuts Castiel’s clothes off, uses his knife (his special one, his baby, Ruby) to cut into Castiel’s skin, engraves his initials right on the curve of hipbones. He presses his boot down on Castiel’s cock when he starts to get hard, calls him a sick fuck, a filthy fucking slut for getting hard from this. He makes Castiel crawl on his knees to get to the bedroom, laughs at him when he tries to keep the rope’s tension off his neck, kicks him along when he starts to falter or slow down.  
  
Weeks of nothing and it’s made Dean crueler than ever. When he fucks into Castiel’s hole, there’s only spit smeared on his cock to help ease the way, not even the precursory stretching of fingers inside him. Dean’s hand use the rope around his neck and wrist like a leash, like reins, pulling him down onto Dean’s cock, forcing his cock deeper and deeper into his hole and it fucking hurts, every bit of him hurts and he’s crying, but he doesn’t beg for it to stop because, truthfully, he’s grateful for the attention. He doesn’t come, Dean doesn’t allow it, but it doesn’t matter because at least Dean is touching him now, even if his touch just brings pain.  
  
He passes out.  
  
When he wakes up, his wrists and neck are free, he hurts all over and he can feel come warm inside him. Dean is sitting on the edge of the bed, and when Castiel tries to sit up, Dean pushes him back down with hands that are gentle this time. He presses a reverent kiss to Castiel temple before slipping his arms under Castiel’s knees and around his shoulders, carrying him into the bathroom. There’s warm water waiting for him, but Dean cleans all of the wounds he made first. Castiel watches Dean’s fingers trace reverently into the D.W. carved into that spot right next to his hip bone and he is thankful that at least something good came out of this, knowing that no one will be able to deny that he belongs to Dean now.  
  
The man washes all the dirt, the come, and the blood off his skin, and they don’t speak. Castiel wonders briefly if Dean will apologize, will beg for forgiveness, but he already knows the answer.

  
**VI.**   


  
The first man he killed was a man named Roger.  
  
Of course, he didn’t know that was the man’s name before he drove the scalpel through his throat. He recognized the man’s face, had seen him roaming the halls at night with his cart of cleaning supplies. He remembered asking after the man’s family and the way he would grin when he spoke of his six-year-old.  
  
And Castiel hadn’t known his named until his hands were covered with the man’s blood.  
  
They were escaping, getting out of there. Castiel had known then that Dean was not what everyone made him out to be, that he was capable of great kindness and compassion (Castiel still believes this). He liked to think that he could prove this to Dean, that he could be the one who saved a man like Dean, who turned him away from the path of sin and on to the path of righteousness.  
  
But not there, not with cages all around them and people who only wanted to keep them apart. That’s why they did it, why they escaped. Dean was being transferred to another facility, one that was notoriously known for its harsh methods. No matter how many times Castiel begged, his superiors insisted that they couldn’t keep him there. The families of the people he tortured and murdered were calling for blood and they wouldn’t stop until they got it. If he truly was getting better, they argued, then he would be fine in such a facility as Sunnyside.  
  
How could Castiel leave Dean to that fate? How could he ever claim to love Dean if he abandoned him? These were the same questions Dean posed to Castiel and, for the life of him, Castiel could not find an answer. The guilt tore him up, threatened to eat him from the inside out and he knew that he couldn’t just stand idly by and let the only man he’d ever loved – the only man who’d ever loved  _him_  – be taken from him like that.  
  
The plan was going well up until the janitor interrupted them.  
  
They were standing in a hallway, so close to freedom, but Castiel’s hands wouldn’t stop shaking. They were shaking when he tried to push the key into the lock, when his fingers slipped and the key ring dropped to the ground.  
  
Dean had cursed and pushed him out of the way, shoving him up against the wall and Castiel bit off a groan of pain. The keys were in Dean’s hand, the other pressed against Castiel’s chest to keep him out of the way while he thumbed through the keys. Glancing down, Castiel tried not to think about the scalpel Dean was holding in the hand that lay against his chest, “The small one. Silver.”  
  
The man had said nothing, just grunted in thanks and started to turn the key and that was when the janitor appeared.  
  
Castiel didn’t have time to warn Dean when the hard metal of a broomstick handle came down across his back. He just watched as the man went down on his knees as Roger hit him again and once more.  
  
“I got him, Mr. Novak! Run and get help! Get out of here!”  
  
He had frozen, watched as Dean surged up from the ground and grabbed the broom before it could come down on him again. He watched them struggle for purchase, watched Dean charge Roger into the wall, watched Roger twist so it was Dean pressed there instead, the metal rod pressing down on his throat. He watched Dean struggle and gasp for air, while Roger shouted at him some more to leave, get out while he could, get help. He realized then that Dean was dying right before him, that the janitor was choking the life out of him (Dean may have had the practice, but he was much smaller than the janitor) and he couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything to help.  
  
It glinted, like it was calling to him, begging him to hold it tight. The scalpel, right at his feet where Dean had dropped it, and then it was in his hand.  
  
It was easier than he would have thought, to drive such a blade through someone’s skin. Then again, scalpels were made to be especially sharp. It was like cutting through butter when the tip of the blade went through Roger’s jugular and blood spilled out over his hands. He watched it gush out, splash on Dean’s face, on the wall, on them. It was everywhere and Castiel found himself going down with Roger, following him to the ground, pressing his hands against the wound he created as if it might help. But it didn’t. Castiel sat there kneeling beside the body of a man who he saw every day and whose name he had never known and it was no longer a man anymore, just a body.  
  
Dean’s hands were pulling at him, hauling him to his feet and dragging him away, but all Castiel could see was the word on his name tag.  
  
When they found shelter that night, Dean forced him to wash up. Dean pulled his arms out of his overcoat and shirt and tossed them to the floor. Dean pulled him into a cold shower (“Hot water’s not working.”) and scrubbed all the blood off his skin, cradled his hands and kissed them even though the blood wasn’t all gone yet, Dean still kissed his hands.  
  
Later, when Dean was inside him, when Dean’s hips were rocking up into his at a tortuously slow pace, when Dean’s fist was wrapped around his cock and pulling in languid strokes until Castiel thought he might fall to pieces, Dean murmured words of praise into Castiel’s skin. Told Castiel how proud he was, how he always knew that he could rely on Cas to keep him safe, to do anything for him, to rescue him.  
  
And Castiel knew he was lost.

  
**VII.**   


  
“Why’d you do that?”  
  
The man’s lips are sewn shut.  
  
Castiel shrugs. “He called me a ‘faggot whore.’” He doesn’t tell Dean the other things this one said. Castiel sits crossed-legged on the floor of the man’s basement, dragging a very sharp knife down the skin of his calf.  
  
Dean laughs, but his eyes are dark as he swigs his beer (he’s been drinking more than usual and Castiel can’t decide if that’s a Good Thing or a Bad Thing). “Well, he got half of it right – you are a whore.”  
  
A blush rises hot and bright over Castiel’s neck and he refocuses on his work, muttering, “Shut up, Dean.” He does not think about the heat that pools in his stomach.  
  
The symbols he’s carving into the man’s skin are curved in some places, harshly angled in others. He doesn’t know what they mean, but they do look pretty this way.  
  
“What do they mean?”  
  
“I don’t know. I think I dreamed them once.”  
  
On rare nights, he dreams. Not nightmares, of ghosts who come back for him, for Dean, but actual dreams. He dreams of a place filled with bright, white light and singing. The symbols are everywhere, carved and sewn and written, voices call out to him, begging him to come home, crying when he tells them he can’t, Dean needs him. The voices always turn to mournful singing then, and when he wakes he can’t remember the song, but he always remembers the symbols.  
  
The man’s skin is covered in sweat, but not too much blood. Castiel has been wiping it away as he carves, as his blade digs out pieces of the man’s skin to get the effect he wants. Strips of skin have been pulled off in the shapes of Castiel’s symbols, revealing red muscle underneath. The room is freezing, but Castiel wants it that way, wants it to slow down the flow of blood just a bit more so he can make sure he gets it right.  
  
Dean doesn’t enquire further just takes a seat in the Lay-Z-Boy he dragged down here so he could have somewhere comfortable to watch.  
  
This is probably the first one who hasn’t started crying at this point and Castiel admires that. It’s quaint, the way this one has been trying so  _hard_  to hold out. Keeping himself together, barely even screaming when Castiel first put the needle through his skin and pulled the thread through. Admirable, but foolish. Dean was watching, and these types were always Dean’s favorite. The ones who refused to give in, the ones who refused to cry and scream for their lives properly. It only made him want to try harder.  
  
So he’ll let Castiel have the first couple of hours, let Castiel start taking him apart in that slow, calculating way that Dean always teases him for. Just do it, Dean will say,  _Just fucking rip him apart – but make it hurt._  But Castiel never likes it that way.  
  
Most times, he can pretend that he’s a doctor again, the kind of doctor his mother wanted him to be. He only took a few courses in anatomy, only saw a dead body twice before he met Dean. They were cold things, looked like they were carved out of marble. It’s easy to make himself believe that even when they were struggling, when they were screaming, they were just slabs of rock waiting to be carved.  
  
He hardly notices the time that has passed when Dean’s lips press to the back of his neck and warm hands slide around his waist. He’s standing then, bent over the curve of the man’s shoulder and he didn’t even notice that the subject had passed out, probably from the pain, or perhaps blood loss.  
  
It’s not as thorough a job as Castiel would like. He would like to keep on going, keep on cutting and pulling away layers of skin until only faint traces of white skin are visible. Until the subject’s body is covered in Castiel’s design, covered in the symbols he dreams. Of course, that would take hours and Castiel knows they don’t have that kind of time.  
  
Besides, it’s Dean’s turn now.  
  
Castiel presses a kiss to the harsh line of Dean’s jaw, murmuring about getting food. He hadn’t realized until then how hungry he was. His whole body feels sore and stiff and he’s so cold, the break will do him good. He’ll cook something warm, something with red meat, and sit by the fire to wait for Dean. He knows that Dean will probably kill this man and after that, Dean will want to fuck. Not that Castiel minds, of course, because that heat crawling under his skin never faded.  
  
He goes upstairs and it’s only when he closes the door that the screaming starts.  
  
Hamburgers. He wants a hamburger.

  
**VIII.**   


  
The first time he watched Dean kill someone, he was kneeling in a pool of blood.  
  
It wasn’t not his blood, it was the blood of the man writhing in the chair he’s tied down to. His body was littered with cuts, with slices of skin completely removed, with bruises and burns and Castiel had wondered over and over,  _How can he still be alive?_  
  
Dean stood there, towering over the both of them, stripped down to his jeans now, hands and wrists covered in blood, spatters of it stark against pale, tight skin and Castiel had been dragging himself away from treacherous thoughts, voices that whispered at him how beautiful Dean looked like that, just like that.  
  
He was trying not to think of it because he had begged Dean not to do this. Had gotten on his knees, had crawled just like Dean asked him to, had pleaded with him for days, even as they stalked the very man Dean was now torturing. And Dean had let him think for a while that everything was fine. They moved out of the city and into a cabin out in the woods. Castiel liked the cabins, liked that they were isolated, and every time they found a new one, he let himself believe again that they could stay here, that they could  _settle down._  
  
He’d been very naive then.  
  
Dean had told him he had a surprise, something he knew that Castiel would enjoy, waiting down in the cellar of the cabin. There were no warning bells, no alarms, no signals that alerted Castiel. He trusted Dean, trusted the man with his life. Why should he have any reason to fear.  
  
When Dean turned the cellar lights on it was clear that the man had been down there the entire time, for all the days they’d been at the cabin at least and it made sense then. Why Castiel had woken up to an empty bed at strange hours of the night. The screaming that he assumed could only be the wind, just the howling wind.  
  
He had tried to move forward, to free the man, but Dean was there in an instant, shoving him back against the hard brick wall.  
  
“Don’t do it, doc. I don’t wanna hurt you, I only wanna hurt him.” Castiel had ignored him, of course, had struggled, fought, shouted and clawed at Dean to try to get to the man, the victim. He learned then how strong Dean was and it was a night of many firsts.  
  
It was the first night Dean hit him.  
  
One backhanded slap across the face was enough to send Castiel stumbling back, Dean stomping right after him. Dean’s hands had been unyielding as they forced his hands back and clasped tight cuffs around each of his wrists. Except they weren’t quite handcuffs, they were something more and Castiel knew it as soon as he felt similar ones latch around his ankles and, when he tried to pull his arms, he found that they were attached to the cuffs at his ankles. Dean had practically hog-tied him and placed him front and centre, where he would have the best view.  
  
Dean warned him not to speak, told him that if he made a peep, it’d only be worse for all of them and then pressed a chaste kiss to his lips before he went to work.  
  
The things he did to the man were horrifying, many times Castiel thought he might throw up. He wanted so badly to shout at Dean, to beg him to stop, to just come to bed, to let Castiel wash it all away, but he didn’t dare. Years of training had made him a good read of people, and he knew that nothing he said would change Dean’s mind.  
  
But still, digging somewhere beneath the surface was a part of Castiel that betrayed him, that wondered.  _Curiosity_. It felt like a light that flickered, a light that was near dying, the way the thoughts would flash in and out of his head. What did it feel like to have all that blood on your skin? How hard was he pressing in order to cut that deep? Was the blade sterilized? Did it matter when Dean was only going to kill the man in the end?  
  
And Dean made it look so easy, so effortless. Castiel watched him saw through flesh and bone with a rusty handsaw wearing the same expression he used to cut a loaf of bread. It was fascinating and Castiel hated himself for thinking it. Hated himself for the twinge, the itch under his skin.  
  
But he didn’t hate Dean for it. Not even when the man was finally dead and Castiel felt like he could breathe. He was responsible, he had failed to keep Dean on the righteous path, had failed to save a human being, he had been too weak, but as soon as the man breathed his last it finally felt like Castiel could breathe again.  
  
Dean had walked to him then, had run bloody fingers through his hair in such a gentle caress that Castiel almost forgot where they were. The blood was soaking through his pants, but Dean’s hand stroking down his face had a way of taking all of that away. All that matter was that touch.  
  
When Dean pulled out his cock, Castiel didn’t resist. He opened up his mouth, relaxed his throat, and followed only the grip of Dean’s hands as the man started fucking his mouth, thrusting deep into his throat without pause. He came quickly, shoved right down his throat and moaning about Castiel’s pretty mouth.  
  
Then Dean had knelt down in front of him and pulled Castiel’s cock out of his pants, bloody hands and all. He’s kisses were hard and bruising and biting as he pumped his fist. He stroked an orgasm out of him, plucking from his as easy as plucking a string and Castiel tried not to notice the way his come looked mixed with all that blood on the floor.  
  
Dean finally released him, sent him back up to the cabin with a pat on his rear and an order to bathe and sleep. Castiel didn’t ask what would happen to the body because he was certain then that he didn’t want to know.  
  
There would be many more days and nights like this one, but it was the first.

  
**IX.**   


  
He’s somewhere between sleep, stuck in that limbo. Every time the car takes a gentle turn and his head lolls to the side he jerks awake. Dean stills sits behind the wheel, fingers drumming on the steering wheel, humming along to music playing quietly from the radio. He blinks and they’re still driving down a long stretch of highway that looks just the same as all the others he’s seen; in the darkness he can see the faint outlines of wheat fields on either side, broken every so often by thatches of forest.  
  
Then he drifts to sleep again with the lullaby of Dean’s voice and the rocking of the Impala. They drive for hours and he doesn’t know where they’re going, but he doesn’t need to. Dean will take them where they need to go, Dean will take care of them.  
  
When he wakes again, the car is slowing and gravel crunches under the tires. “Dean?” There’s bright lights reflecting through the windows and his eyes squint at the sudden harshness.  
  
“It’s okay, baby. We’re just… Getting pulled over.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Don’t worry about it—”  
  
“Are you joking?”  
  
“—Just stay calm, act normal and we’ll be okay.” Dean’s staring at the side view mirror and Castiel can see the dark outline of a figure coming alongside.  
  
A bright flashlight shone into the car and Castiel covered his eyes, still adjusting to the moonlight.  
  
“License and registration, please.” Soft, probably female. When he could finally pull his hand away from the light he can see the faint outline of a curved face, too shadowed for him to tell if she’s pretty or not. He imagined she was, that she’s beautiful and kind and doesn’t have an eye for faces.  
  
“Certainly, officer. It’s in the glove compartment.” There’s a question there, as though Dean is making sure that she can see what he’s doing, that he isn’t going to be reaching for a gun (there’s one stashed there and Castiel knows it, but he has no way of knowing if he’s going to watch this woman get blown away, right before his very eyes). When Dean’s hand emerges there’s only a piece of paper encased in plastic which he hands over easily enough while Castiel tries to make himself look as small as possible.  
  
“ID’s in my wallet.” Castiel doesn’t have to look at Dean’s face to know that he’s giving that charming smile, the one full of teeth that seemed to put people at ease. He watched as Dean lifted up his butt to get to the wallet he always kept stashed in his back pocket, saw one glint of silver before Dean’s hand is lashing out and suddenly the woman goes crumpling to the ground and Dean’s climbing out of the car.  
  
Castiel scrambles out in time to watch Dean kick the gun from the woman’s hand and then place his boot on the wound he’s made. Her hair is falling out of her tight ponytail as her head tilts back and she screams and Castiel wants to tell her that it won’t do her any good, they’re too far away from civilization for it to do her any good. He watches as Dean rids the woman of her belt, tosses it at Castiel’s feet.  
  
“Grab her cuffs, Cas.”  
  
But he freezes. She’s staring at him and her eyes are watering and Dean’s boot is still on that stab wound he made. Castiel can hear singing in his ears and see the symbols all around her and he doesn’t realize until Dean shouts his name that he’s the one who’s singing.  
  
“No, Dean. No. Not this one.” He can see everything she is, all that she will be and he can’t do it. He can’t let Dean do it.  
  
“What? What the fuck did you just say?” Castiel finally looks at Dean and he can see that muscle ticking in the man’s jaw.  
  
“I said no, Dean. I’m not doing this. You are not going to hurt her, Dean.” Dean’s eyes go wide at that and Castiel can feel that part of him that wants to curl up and hide, but he doesn’t, he just raises his chin, meeting the other man’s gaze.  
  
“She’s gonna squeal, Cas, squeal like a fucking pig.” Dean pulls his boot away from her only to deal one more hard kick to that wound and she howls again. In a few short strides, Dean’s crowding into Castiel’s space, nose brushing against his cheekbone. “Tell them where we were, where we’re going. You wanna end up in jail, Cas? You wanna end up locked up in the same goddamn place you used to work, huh? ‘Cause that’s what’s gonna happen if we let her walk.”  
  
Castiel swallows past his fear, chokes it down and shakes his head.  
  
“No, it won’t.” Oh, she’ll tell certainly. But they won’t get caught. Not now, anyway.  
  
“How the fuck do you know? What? You can see the future now?” Dean’s furious, barely containing it, his hands bunched into fists at his sides and Castiel knows he’ll pay for this later. But this is the right thing, he can feel it in his bones.  
  
“Maybe I can.” Castiel smiles, hands coming up to slide under Dean’s jacket, soothing over his chest. “Just trust me, Dean. Trust me.”  
  
The man’s eyes are hard, but Castiel knows this body by now, knows just how to pluck its strings. He can see the moment that Dean gives up, shoving Castiel’s hands away hard, but huffing out. “Fine. Fuck. Fine, you want her to live then you can deal with her.”  
  
He tosses the switchblade he used to stab her at Castiel and turns back to the Impala. Dean climbs in, but not before kicking her once more in her wounded side.  
  
It takes Castiel six minutes to get her up and into her car. He uses her first aid kit to do a quick job of bandaging the wound up, but he knows she’ll be fine. Dean hadn’t wanted to kill her, only incapacitate so that he could take his time. He knows that her co-workers will be along soon, can hear them chattering on her radio, asking her to report. Castiel does use the handcuffs, uses them to cuff her to the steering column so she can’t radio for help, not yet.  
  
“Thank you,” She whispers, her voice rough and Castiel knows the feeling.  
  
He smiles, leans in one last time to kiss her forehead.  
  
“You’re welcome, Officer Mills.”  
  
When they drive away, Castiel hums his song, the song he hears in his dreams at night, but it’s not a sad song, not anymore. It’s a song of change coming, good change or bad, he doesn’t know yet. But he is not afraid.

  
**X.**   


  
All is quiet until Dean comes into the kitchen. Castiel’s been standing at the table for ten minutes now, staring down at the woodgrain like it might unravel everything, like it might have all the answers etched into it. But it doesn’t.  
  
“You have another one, don’t you?”  
  
Castiel knew it, could feel the cold clench in his gut when Dean - after arriving back to yet another abandoned cabin they are borrowing for the time being - went straight to the small shed just outside. He wanted to go to the window, wanted to see what Dean was doing, but he heard a scuffle, heard a shout from someone (not Dean) and he knew.  
  
Dean doesn’t answer him, just goes straight for the fridge and pulls out a beer. It’s chilly this time of year for Illinois, but Dean’s not wearing his coat, just a thin t-shirt and there’s a faint sheen of sweat on Dean’s brow and is that blood on his collar? He was supposed to be getting supplies not—  
  
“Why are you doing this again, Dean?” Castiel’s hands are bunched into fists at his side and he doesn’t want to open his eyes, doesn’t want to see anything but the darkness.  
  
“What’s the matter, doc?” Dean’s voice is so cold, hard, makes Castiel shudder. Is this his Dean? “Curiosity getting the best of you?”  
  
The words are like a physical blow and it makes him gasp, head turning, eyes opening, “No, I—”  
  
“‘Cause I saw your face.” Dean stalks closer and suddenly the room seems so small, “All those times when you caught me with them. Slicing their skin right off their bodies, and they just scream and scream.” Dean’s arm appears from behind him, setting his beer down on the table space before Castiel. “I know it gets you all warm, baby. I know how much you like it when I fuck you after, when my hands still got their blood all over them.” Dean’s breath is warm on the back of his neck, his arms like a cage on either side of his body. The long line of Dean’s body is pressed tight up against his, pressing the bones of his hips into the table’s edge.  
  
“Wanna know what it feels like, doc? To hold a knife in your hand? To make them beg for you to save them - they always beg, every one of them will beg. They reach for you, plead for it, promise you everything under the sun if you just spare them. Save them. And then you tell ‘em no.”  
  
Castiel feels dizzy, nauseous, his mind swirling with possibilities. He shouldn’t. He can’t. It goes against everything he was brought up to believe in, goes against all his principals. He took an oath to protect humanity, to save people, not hurt them. Not kill them. There’s a voice hollering in his head that he can’t, he can’t, he can’t and it’s bellowing, feels like it’s going to make his eardrums explode.  
  
But there’s something dark in him, stirring and waking and has it always been there or was it Dean who brought it to him? He wants nothing more than to make Dean happy, to make Dean proud of him, to show Dean something new and beautiful. But is that possible now? Was it ever? What can he do? Give up? Give them both up and run away? Leave Dean to those same people that wanted to hurt him not so long ago. What will you do, Castiel? Abandon the only one who’s ever loved you? Turn away from that oozing, swirling darkness that whispers in your ear at night that this is where you belong?  
  
Dean’s a solid presence at his back, hands trailing up his arms, caressing so soft, lips pressing gentle kisses along the nape of his neck. Dizzy, he feels so dizzy, but when Dean beckons him, Castiel follows.  
  
The man guides his hand, shows him how to properly hold a blade, shows him where to cut for maximum effect. Dean’s like the devil on his shoulder, the guiding light that burns so brightly, tells him just what to do and when and Castiel is mesmerized by it. He cuts into soft flesh, watches the body twitch and jerk and scream and he feels quiet. Calm. And Dean is so proud of him, kisses him easy and gentle when it’s done, murmuring against Castiel’s lips that he was so good, so beautiful, so perfect. There will be time for remorse later.  
  
When they’re lying together on the cold floor of the little shack, the still warm body slowly cooling, Dean presses his lips to Castiel’s temple, cradles him close and whispers,  
  
“My angel.”

 

**XI.**

  
They’re sitting curled up on the couch and Dean’s arm is curled over his shoulder, holding him close and tight. Castiel is nestled against Dean’s side and a scratchy blanket covers their legs. The news is droning on and on and Castiel knows he shouldn’t care, but he does. He does because they’re talking about him and Dean, again.  
  
 _“We can now confirm that the bodies to the infamous Dean Winchester and Castiel Novak have been discovered at the base of the Grand Canyon after having driven their car off a cliff.”_  
  
The newscaster drones on and on and all Castiel can think is how stupid she is. She pronounced his name wrong. He wonders if Dean might let him find her and kill her later, when they come back. He feels Dean’s chest rise and fall with a huff and he knows that Dean feels the same.  
  
And Castiel knows they’ll come back. He knows that Dean won’t stay idle for long, that he can’t. He knows that there will be some time of peace, maybe a few months if he’s lucky, before the police start to put the pieces together, before they realize the strange things about the bodies. Before the ‘copycat’ murders pop up again and again and then they’ll be back on the run. He knows it, but he doesn’t mind it so much.  
  
Still, he asks, “Will it ever be over?”  
  
The words are out and gone before he can think them over. Dean stiffens against him and Castiel braces himself for the worst.  
  
Instead, Dean just pushes him up gently and looks him in the eye. “Why?”  
  
Castiel doesn’t have an answer. He just shrugs.  
  
Dean sits up then and Castiel is forced to sit up with him. Then Dean’s lips are on his and his tongue is prodding Castiel’s mouth open and Castiel opens up like always, sighing when the taste of Dean fills his mouth and Dean’s hands come up to either side of his face, cradling it gently.  
  
The kiss turns forceful when Castiel moans and soon his back is hitting the couch and Dean’s slipping right in between his legs like it’s the easiest thing in the world and it is. Dean’s hand slides under his shirt, thumbs caressing the peaks of his nipples so gently and Castiel sighs, arches into the man’s hands.  
  
And then he feels it. Cold and hard and sharp and right against his neck.  
  
Everything in him seizes up and he freezes. He doesn’t dare move. He knows this knife, knows its bite. It’s Ruby, and she’s scraping a thin line along the skin of his throat, but not cutting skin. Not yet.  
  
“It ends when you want it to, Cas.” Dean’s face is filing Castiel’s vision and he watches the man’s eyes track the path of the knife down the sides of his neck and across his collarbone. Castiel can’t breathe. “It ends when you give me the word.” Dean’s eyes snap up to his then.  
  
“The day you end it is the day you die, Cas. And I’ll be the one to kill you myself.”  
  
Dean’s voice isn’t cold, isn’t that same voice he uses when he’s speaking to meat suits. It’s soft, almost reassuring, the way he grins, his hand pushing back Castiel’s unruly hair and stroking the curve of his jaw while Ruby scrapes along his skin. It’s a promise.  
  
“When you don’t want this anymore, when you decide you don’t want-“ Dean doesn’t want to finish his sentence, but Castiel fills in the blank for him anyway.  _Me._ “This is the only way it’ll end. With my knife, right here.”  
  
Ruby is poised over his heart then, blade-down and pressing into his skin through the fabric of his shirt. Castiel hisses as she breaks the skin and blood wells up, but it’s a familiar pain, one that makes him bite his lip and sigh. Dean leans in and his lips close over Castiel’s again, biting and pulling and sucking and catching every whimper in his mouth.  
  
“This is how it’ll end, Cas. I’ll make it so good for you first, fuck you nice and slow until you’re begging me to pound you into the floor, to make you feel it. And I will.” The knife is moving again and as Dean braces himself with one hand beside Castiel’s head as it travels along his side and Castiel can’t help the way his hands grip Dean’s shoulder tighter, the way his thighs clench, trying to pull Dean to him, mesmerized by every word. “I’ll make you fucking beg me for it, Cas. I’ll make you come over and over again so that you won’t forget it when you get to the other side. I’ll push my knife right into your heart and watch all the gorgeous blood of you spill out.” The blade pushes in a little harder and Castiel whines, but it doesn’t break the skin. That’s not the name of this game.  
  
Dean leans in closer, Ruby pressed flat against the plane of Castiel’s stomach as their bodies press together close and tight. His eyes won’t let Castiel look away, won’t let him see anything, but Dean. “I’ll watch all that life, your soul, your grace, I’ll watch all seep out of you. I’ll watch your light go out and I’ll be damn proud that it was my hand that did it. My hand that snuffed you out, Cas.” Castiel’s heart felt so light, like it would fly out of his chest if Dean wasn’t there to pin it down.  
  
“And then I’ll follow you.”  
  
He doesn’t have to say how, but Castiel knows. Dean would never kill himself, would never end it with his own hand. He’d go down fighting and he would take as many of them with him as he could. Maybe he’d walk into a grocery store and start firing off rounds. Maybe he’d walk right into a police station and lop off the nearest officers head, and just wait for them to take him down.  
  
Dean’s hands are squeezing hard and desperate, dull nails scraping the scars of his initials branded into Castiel’s skin, and Castiel’s clawing marks into the skin of his back and somehow, Castiel can’t wait. He can’t wait for the day that Dean’s knife presses into his heart and he’ll smile when he dies because it was Dean who did it. It’s Dean who freed him.  
  
And when Dean comes to Hell, Castiel will be waiting there with a smile, like always.  
  
—  
  
“Where are we going?”  
  
“Sao Paolo.”  
  
“What’s in Sao Paolo?”  
  
“My brother.”  
  
“You told me your brother was dead.”  
  
“Well, baby, I lied.”  
  
“What happens once we find him?”  
  
“Dunno. Crash at his place for a while. See if we can’t pull him back into the family business.”  
  
“Family business? You told me Alastair… That was a lie too, wasn’t it?”  
  
“Don’t be upset, doc. I just couldn’t help it, your eyes look even more blue when they’re all watery. Shit, Cas look, everything ended up right in the end, didn’t it? We’ve got some time ‘till the Feds get their heads out of their ass and we’ve got each other. I’ve got you and you’ve got me. And now, Sammy needs us.”  
  
“How do you know that?”  
  
“I just do. All right? Now are you with me or not, Cas?”  
  
“I’m with you, Dean.”  
  
 _I’m with you._


End file.
